


To Reason Religion

by sweetayako15



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Aziraphale is a religious studies professor, Aziraphale is names Azariah, Crowley is a philosophy professor, Crowley just goes by Crowley, More like a lead up to the class, Multi, Rather than the shenanigans of the class
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 11:42:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22675285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetayako15/pseuds/sweetayako15
Summary: Majoring in anything philosophical is usually seen as killing a career before it can even begin. Majoring in anything with a religious focus sends you down a narrow and poorly paved path to changing majors to archaeology or linguistics. Creating a cocktail of the two is a bitter and confusion-inducing field of study reserved for the more masochistic crowd.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	1. Seeds of Curiousity

**Author's Note:**

> I'm excited to share this with you all! Thank you to @D20Owlbear and @ohstars for beta-reading for me. And there is art that goes along with this story that can be found here by @goodomensislife: https://goodomensislife.tumblr.com/post/190783558125/drawn-for-the-good-omens-big-bang-my-lovely  
I hope you all can enjoy this story!

Majoring in anything philosophical is usually seen as killing a career before it can even begin. Majoring in anything with a religious focus sends you down a narrow and poorly paved path to changing majors to archaeology or linguistics. Creating a cocktail of the two is a bitter and confusion-inducing field of study reserved for the more masochistic crowd. Curious parties often find themselves in crises of faith and become fodder for online forums of Christian mothers claiming the evil of universities. 

Foolish scholars, the lot of them.

Those who decide to study one of the two aforementioned fields, and dedicate their lives to it, usually find themselves with two options when faced with the current job market. Firstly being a life of scraping by in some job at a corporation where their knowledge will cause questions of if their jobs and, by extension, their lives have any purpose. The second is going all in, attaining a PhD, and then become a professor that will watch the vicious cycle of their own mistakes repeat with a group of new faces every semester. 

The second option is where one Doctor Azariah Fell found himself, in his office with sleeves rolled up to his elbows and dust rag in hand. His usual coat was hanging by the door, bowtie draped over the hook as well, the first couple of buttons of his shirt undone. Blue eyes gazed over his small office of bookshelves of various sizes and one large mahogany desk, that took up most of the space, while a few chairs and boxes filled in the rest. One lone _ Epipremnum aureum _ plant draped over a bookshelf. He scratched his head, short, blond wisps of hair waving back and forth. 

“Where to begin,” he gave a wondering sigh, but not even an echo came to answer.

Each book in the small office was a prized piece of literature. Some were more modern analyses of recent global issues that were rooted deep in religious history. Most were original theories and investigations into social repercussions of the creations and deaths of various religions. The few more dedicated students that made it into Dr. Fell’s office hours were graced by the presence of great religious scholars through texts dating back to 440 BCE. Most were wise enough to know better than to touch the books. Others were promptly asked to leave. On top of the bookshelves and the desk, pictures of Azariah’s expeditions from Ajanta Caves to L'Abbaye-aux-Hommes were the only evidence that could convince his students that he did leave the small college town. 

While he found the rumors of his life outside of the classroom rather immature, he could understand where they came from. Azariah took great pride in each of his books and had created a rather clever system to read each one in a cycle. He didn’t want any to feel left out, after all. Which is also why he took the time, even if it kept him late into the early mornings, to personally clean his office. Especially at the end of each school year.

While the university did have janitorial staff, he found himself in a rather enjoyable tradition of cleaning and reorganizing his office before the beginning of the summer vacation. He found it therapeutic, taking each title into his hands and removing what little dust sat on the top and cover. It wasn’t essentially uncommon for him to become lost in them, losing hours on end, and having to extend the cleaning into the nights and days following. His record for the quickest cleaning was 5 days, according to his co-workers. During his fifth year of this tradition, Gabriel came on the third day and gave him a copy of the keys to the department building with annoyed and sleep-deprived scrutiny. 

He didn’t mean to keep the man, he really didn’t. It also wasn’t his fault that the building that kept their offices was one of the oldest on the campus, having no automated doors like the STEM buildings or keycard access like the Language Departments. It was a small, outmoded building with only four offices, creaking doors, and few windows. But it was like a second home to Azariah, even if his co-workers made their disdain for the building known regularly. His office offered him a reprieve from his obligations to the administration and students alike. The building was so well hidden, tucked behind a new, taller building that had been in the process of being erected for the past few years. In fact, if it was not for Gabriel’s popularity with students, Azariah was certain that the students would never know the building even existed. It would be much easier that way, he assured himself as he took down his personal copy of Frank M. Cross’s _ Canaanite Myth and Hebrew Epic. _

Dr. Fell had tried the book as a required text for his first semester of teaching, but it was proven out of the range of most students—if the mid-term tests were anything to go by. It led to a rather demeaning conversation with Gabriel about their “commitment to the students’ education and making knowledge more palatable”. Azariah quickly took on a commitment to figuring out ways out of commitments. He had fulfilled his last commitment of the year to the university by attending the all too hot graduation ceremony, feeling as if hell itself was rising up around them that year. It was quite unfair that the fall graduation, being an annoyingly diminished number comparatively, used the campus’ gymnasium for their ceremony every year. He was never asked to attend that ceremony. Or rather, he had politely denied the request three times in his early years and the administration finally got around to understanding subtlety.

Azariah’s personal copies of _History of Religions _from The University of Chicago Press were next, all 39 volumes. He took great pride in his collection of books and had gone to great lengths to acquire a few of them. However, the volumes of this particular journal pre-dating 1980 were quite elusive. He could access quite a few articles online from various universities’ databases, and probably could find some copies in libraries, but…

“Who would settle for just sampling such material?” Azariah picked up the newest volume, sitting down to take a quick break.

A loud knock at the door saw to it that the break was exactly 3 minutes and 33 seconds long. Quick indeed. 

“I’ve already sent in grades to administration. If you are looking to persuade me to change yours, go home,” Azariah called out, not bothering to look up from his book. 

“Azariah, it’s Gabriel,” a familiar and muffled voice responded.

“Oh, come in then!” Azariah called out again, marking his page as the Department Head entered his office.

Long legs, wide shoulders, strong jaw, violet eyes, and a few dignified silver hairs made up one Doctor Gabriel Leone. He had been the Religious Studies Department Head Teacher before Azariah had even begun working at the university. The students flocked to Gabriel’s classes as if the man was Jesus himself, but Azariah knew better if the way he spoke of his students (and colleagues) after a few beers was anything to go by. Gabriel looked around the room before lowering his eyes to the book in his colleague's hands. “Annual cleaning, I take it?”

“Yes, well,” Azariah promptly stood, clearing his throat as he set the book aside, “Did you know there is an interesting piece on animal sacrifices in Judaism, Christianity, and-”

“Yes, very interesting,” He turned around, eyes scanning over the walls and floor, “Azariah, when was the last time you checked your emails?”

“Last week, I believe. Is something wrong?”

“Well, yes,” Gabriel retrieves his smartphone from one of his slacks’ pockets, unlocking it and holding it up, “I think it’s been longer than a week, Azariah. I sent this notice out two weeks ago.”

Azariah takes a step back as he adjusts his glasses to focus on the words on the screen.

_ Religious Studies Department Faculty: _

_ I hope your students have finished their final exams, essays, or projects. It has been a long year, but we are at the final stretch. And as the school year comes to an end, changes are taking place. We have long loved our little corner of the campus, with all its faulty wiring, lack of air conditioning, potential asbestos, and absolute lack of access to the wifi. That being said, I have the honor to announce that our patience has paid off! Our department will be moving locations into the new Liberal Arts building on the North side of campus. The current building will be demolished over the summer vacation to make way for a new lecture hall. Please see me about your new office room number and prepare your belongings to move. We will officially cease operations in our current location a week after graduation. _

_ Congratulations to us! _ _   
_ _ Doctor Gabriel Leone _

  
  


Azariah looked up from the phone, swallowing at Gabriel’s smile. _ One week. _One week from graduation would be the next day, giving Azariah–

“You have until 7 PM tomorrow to pack everything up and move it to your new office. You have 26 hours to do so,” Gabriel pocketed his phone and headed towards the door. “Oh! Your office is 302 and the door is a code lock. The code is your ID number, so no more keys!”

Azariah was thankful for the click of the door’s bolt, bringing a quiet pause to his thoughts. He stood, taking in his office once more, and felt his heart begin to race. 26 hours. Why had no one told him? Did everyone else already move out? How was he going to move everything over? Would there be enough room for everything? What about his desk and bookshelves? What was wrong with their current building? Why hadn’t they noticed he wasn’t-

“Oh, you are not a first-year student! Get it together, Azariah,” he smacked his cheeks, leaving pink traces across them. “I suppose I should see the new office before I begin hauling boxes.”

The new Liberal Arts Building was in the North quad while the old Religious Studies building was in the East quad. In theory, they were close. In practice, with buildings being locked up for the summer, it took Azariah nearly 20 minutes just to reach the front doors. Sweat dripped down his forehead, but a few books and his lone plant in his arms kept him from reaching his handkerchief. Soon enough, the building (all white, box-like, and uncharacteristically new) loomed over him, offering a reprise from the sun. He jumped a couple of centimeters when the doors opened, a gust of cool air rushing out to counter the roasting heat waves. 

‘_ Well, that is a nice change, I suppose,’ _Azariah thought as he elbowed the elevator button. 

The first thing Azariah noticed was that corridors were immaculate and very white, save for the light wood floors. His steps echoed down the hall as he passed various study areas for students, coming to rooms _ 310 _ and _ 311 _ before realizing how far down his room was. Curiosity came over him as he paused, looking right and left to read the names on each door. 

**310** **  
** **Doctor G. Leone** **  
** **Religious Studies ** **  
** **Department Head **

**311** **  
** **Doctor B. Bubb** **  
** **Philosophy Studies** **  
** **Department Head**

“_ Philosophy? _Well, it’ll be nice to have new neighbors,” Azariah muttered before continuing his trek, arms beginning to feel sore. 

Passing the offices of Micheal, Uri, and a couple of other familiar faculty (along with many unfamiliar ones of the left of the hallway that Azariah couldn’t put enough energy into remembering names), Azariah let out a sigh of relief. As he was only a few steps from room _ 303 _ , muffled music drifts through the air. The source was coming from the room across from Azariah’s office, room _ 302 _. Azariah stared at the door, attempting to make out the music for a brief moment before scoffing.

‘_ Bebop,’ _ Azariah rolled his eyes as he set down his plant to punch in his faculty ID number into the keypad above the handle. The door opened easily, almost weightless, to a space that was… well, for lack of a better term, _ bland _. It was large– almost twice the size of Azariah’s current office. But it was so clean, bright, and empty. The only color came from a large tree that could be seen from the large bay window, pushing out from the wall to create a nice nook to sit. The floor was the same as the hallways and Azariah was eager to move his rug that he received from a nice man (that he may or may not have had relations with one summer) from Casablanca into the new space. 

Setting the books down on the nook, Azariah gazed out the window to find a small courtyard below. A couple of benches faced each other along a diagonal path that connected to the outlined paths of the square. It looked as though plants were in the process of being integrated into the space, but only dirt so far. Which made the large tree quite out of place, taking up a large portion of the courtyard. 

“Speaking of plants…” Azariah pushed away from the window, heading back towards the door to retrieve his _ Epipremnum aureum _.

He opened the door, only for a sound ‘What the fuck’ to follow a rather loud thump. Azariah quickly pushed the door open wider looking for the source, only for another thump to come from behind said door.

“For fuck’s sake! Close the door!”

Head whipping around the door, Azariah looked down at his plant, the only living thing he could trust himself taking care of. However, it was no longer on the floor, but rather in the lap of someone with their ass on the ground, hunched over, hands pressed into his face, and with very little sense of grace. Shoulder length red hair was the first thing to catch Azariah’s attention, shortly followed by the now clear and _ loud _sound of an electric guitar coming from across the hall. 

“Oh! I’m very sorry about that!” Azariah stepped out into the hallway, closing the door behind him. He bent down, trying to get a better look at the redhead. “Excuse me, but what are you doing with my plant?”

A pair of black sunglasses, round in shape, were perched on the man’s pointed nose. Said nose was quite red along with his right cheek that a hand was still pressed to. He tried to snarl but winced with a slight groan as his other hand came up to rub his nose with his thumb and forefinger. The stranger was a mess of sharp edges that were accentuated by tightly fitting _ black _clothing.

“Well, if you hadn’t left the thing out here in the cold air like an imbecile-”

For a split moment, confusion of several factors in this situation collided within Azariah’s head. One was the plant. Two was the stranger. Three was the poorly chosen music. But of all things to focus on, his mind decided:

“Aren’t you worried about heatstroke in all that black clothing?”

Azariah quickly regretted opening his mouth, his cheeks heating up as silence overcame the two parties, both staring at each other for more than a few seconds beyond what would be socially appropriate. Azariah looked away in shame before laughter erupted from the stranger. Maybe ‘laughter’ is too generous to describe the cackle that overtook the music. The man seemingly calmed down enough as Azariah’s embarrassed face slowly morphed into one of disdain, blue eyes narrowed at the man’s feet. 

“Hey, don’t be glaring at me like that. You’re the one that abandoned this guy out here!”

“Well, you don’t have to laugh. It’s a serious concern! And I didn’t abandon it, I just set it down as I saw to my new office.”

The stranger looked up at the closed door then back at Azariah before snickering. He stood up, plant in one hand while the other dusted off his jeans. Azariah followed suit, with eyes on his plant and a piece of his mind that wanted to yank the pot out of the man’s hands. But before that piece could convince all the other parts, the plant was held out before him, the pot balancing in the man’s palm. Taking the plant, Azariah looked up at the man, mouth open but tongue still.

“Name’s Anthony Crowley, but everyone just calls me Crowley, from the Philosophy Department. And,” Crowley held his thumb towards the open office door, music quieting down towards the end, “This is my office.”

A feeling of relief came over Azariah, knowing now just who this stranger was that he had hit with his door. And then a wave of panic set in as he realized he had _ hit his neighbor in the face, with his door. _

“Oh Lord, I am so very sorry!” He paused in a slight panic, stepping forward to try and look at the damage he had caused. The panic increased as he pulled Crowley’s hand away from his nose, apparently opening the gates for blood to dribble out. “You’re bleeding! I should have looked earlier to see if there is any damage…” He looked around, spotting a restroom sign right down the hall. 

Now, Crowley, for all intents and purposes, was not one to be simply dragged along in things. He was such a petty enough of a being that he went out of his way to do quite the opposite, much to the constant annoyance of his colleagues. But, whether it was due to the curiosity of his new neighbor or the smack to the face had caused a delay in his brain, he found himself being dragged down the hall quite willingly. He also willingly let the man wipe his face with a wet paper towel before watching him look around for a first aid kit, plant still in hand, as he instructed Crowley to hold the towel to his nose. Curiosity indeed.

He finally found his voice after a few minutes of just watching. “Hey, it’s alright. It’s not broken or anything, and I have ice in my office.”

Azariah finally stopped moving. “You do?”

“Yeah, I have a mini-fridge in my office. It has a freezer.”

Taking a step forward, Azariah moved the towel away from his face. “Can you remove your glasses? I would like to just make sure it’s not anything serious.”

Crowley took a step back, bringing the towel back up to his nose. “Nah, it’s fine,” He poked and pinched his nose like some sort of proof. “Come on, I have some coffee on in my office.”

“But-”

“It’s fine, uh…” Crowley stared at the man. ‘_ Shit. I forgot to ask for his name!” _

Azariah returned the look for a moment before gasping. “I’m so very sorry for not introducing myself! I am Doctor Azariah Fell.”

“Azariah?”

“Azariah.”

“Bit… religious. Isn’t it?”

“One of the many reasons for my field of study.”

Seeing no reason to argue such a simple question, Crowley nodded. “Well then, shall we?”

Azariah’s smile seemed to shine as he followed Crowley back to his office. He could spare a minute or two before worrying about moving his belongings. 

**Bonus:**

Many hours later, as the sun was setting with the illusion of cooler temperatures, Crowley found himself regretting his clothing choice. He silently cursed his choices that lead to him, Azariah, and strange woman from the English Department that knew Azariah from some conference, hauled boxes of books from the East Quad to the North. At least there was a promise of alcohol for his good deeds.

  
  
  



	2. Sprouts of Progress

Months of planning and presentation preparation go into every semester at Centauri University. The next year’s options for each department are compiled, discussed, and sifted through to find a well-balanced amount between each professor. It is also a time for innovating new classes and materials that will attract new students into the field in question. At least, that’s how it is on paper.

In reality, most departments keep with the same classes every year until a new, bright-eyed, and hopeful professor joins. Only then are new and exciting class ideas pitched, built upon,syllabi formatted, and then scrapped by said professor once they realize the general class workload they will have. Ideas came and went every year, the new professors replaced the old, and the cycle continued. But, as with every cycle, there is a rare occasion that comes to disrupt it. 

Azariah had been teaching at Centauri University for around six and a half years, and his schedule stayed the same for every one of them. He taught three types of classes, three of each type, every semester: World Religions I, World Religions II, and Western Religions I. While it was monotonous, he appreciated the safety in it. No new text to sort through, research prompts to plan, or syllabi to create, leaving plenty of free time for him to pursue hobbies. In the past year, he had taken up embroidery. His local quilting circle quickly took him under their wings when he had sought out someone to teach him. They were a nice group of elderly women that invited him to birthdays and holiday events, giving Azariah a nice break from absolute monotony and social seclusion. He had hoped to join them on a trip back to London over the summer, but he seemed to lack the foresight of his own inhibitions.

After setting up his new office, Azariah discovered the room to be more spacious than his previous location. More space meant more books. More books meant shopping needed to happen. Shopping lead to him having to cancel his end of summer, trans-Atlantic trip to the Tate Modern for the Anni Alber exhibition. While he (and the quilting circle by extension) was disappointed, Azariah decided to look at the silver lining of not needing to return to his home country. Beyond museums and a few select restaurants, there was little that made the trip worth the flight and jet-lag. 

The local fairs and farmers’ markets were a much better alternative, save for the heat that Azariah loathed come ten in the morning every day (Gabriel had once suggested a change in attire only to receive an audaciously dramatic gasp). He found that he would only be available for appointments that didn’t require him to be anywhere outside between ten in the morning till five in the evening. Such limitations to his schedule usually meant he either became a homebody or appeared as a so-called “workaholic”, spending more hours than anyone on holiday should- which is to say any. It was during one of these days on campus that he found himself running into Michael.

“Azariah, what in God’s name are you doing here?” 

Michael. Michael was not a mean spirited person at heart, Azariah liked to believe. However, he could not lie about their relationship or lack thereof. While they shared the same title on paper, Michael was more like Gabriel’s right-hand assistant. It was no secret how she viewed Azariah, and he did his best to not think of that or of her. But they were still co-workers and had to orbit in the same general locations and duties, much to both of their distastes.

“Oh, I… Well, rather, I am doing a bit of research!” His upper lip switched as it was pulled into a large smile.

“Research?”

“Yes. I’m afraid I will need to submit a new application for a grant soon. Gabriel’s orders!” His bottom lip twitched.

Michael scanned over him quickly, eyes narrowing just as Azariah’s cursed twitch made itself known. Really, he was quite a terrible liar. Michael hated liars but loved watching them squirm. It was more fun than calling someone’s bluff. 

“Well, I suppose you should join our department meeting since you are here,” Michael pulled out her phone, tapping it rapidly. 

“W-well, I have the grant proposal to write–”

“Gabriel agrees with me.” The smartphone’s screen is pushed in front of Azairah’s face, proving Michael’s statement, “Make sure to bring your syllabi for the semester for approval to the meeting room at the end of the hall in one hour.”

“But I already submitted my syllabi for approval!”

“Bring them.” Michael turned her back to him, continuing her previous journey. 

Cheeks puffing and brows furrowed, Azariah managed to pull himself from his stupor to return to his office, nearly slamming the door behind himself. Slapping his papers down on his desk, he let out a groan. “Oh, bugger…” 

Complaints about high temperatures never made much sense to Anthony Crowley. He quite preferred them to the low temperatures of winter—even if his fashion style was more fitting for the colder months. While he hated sweating, he hated shivering even more. Which meant that finding himself in a cold New Zealand during July could firmly be counted as one of his greatest regrets in life. He lasted only one week of his planned two week holiday, and that was only due to the very persuasive matron that owned the inn he was staying at. She was a sassy old dame with a knack for traditional cooking that even had Crowley awaking at ungodly hours to have a taste of, sitting down to chat when he was the only one at her table. She convinced him to travel to a few locations that he could take refuge inside local buildings when it got too much. It wasn’t until he arrived back in the states that he noticed a pending refund in his bank account for half of what he paid for the room and board. 

He made a yelp account to leave her a five-star review.

Coming home was an uneventful affair for Crowley, considering he had lived alone since moving to America and he kept his private life, well,  _ private.  _ His neighbors and their kid were the only ones that he ever included in his plans, needing someone to care for his plants when he was away for extended periods. But even then, the teenager only ever asked about dates and how much he was getting paid. He was a good, money-driven kid; Crowley respected that. 

As much as he had convinced himself that home was better than fooling himself into enjoying the frozen New Zealand hills, the silence made for equally frigid company. His apartment was a piece of real estate that left the occasional visitor and delivery man wondering what kind of family Mr. Crowley came from; for a Philosophy professor at the local university to obtain such a place. It was large, arguably having one of the largest floor plans for an apartment in the city, with a balcony big enough for his larger plants. While he chose the concrete-industrial theme when he moved in, and very much appreciated how it hid any sort of  _ living _ that might make someone feel comfortable, he could not deny himself the way the echoes carried through the rooms. He did try his best to fill the silence between the flatscreen mounted on his office and the stereo in his living room. Perhaps it was his lack of interest in television or the lack of response from his plants when he threatened to chuck one over the balcony, but Crowley found himself bored after 6 hours of arriving home. Two days later, after cycling through Queen’s full repertoire twice, around 20 hours of youtube videos, and a continuous back and forth with his department head about a few things, Crowley found himself inside his antique Bently in the faculty parking lot of Centauri University. 

Now, Crowley rather enjoyed the predictability of his job. It offered a sense of comfort to him every semester to know that he only had to put in a little more than ten percent of effort (changing the semester and year on syllabi, contemplating if he should force his students to buy the newest edition of the text or not, and selecting two of the ten mid-term/final essay prompts he created the one and only time he’d given more than ten percent). He enjoyed having the same schedule every semester and his department all agreed that he was the best one to handle freshman and elective students. Very few students ever dropped his classes and he had, at one point, been deemed worthy to receive a flaming chili pepper on a certain website. He had even taken a screenshot before the chili peppers were taken down, if for nothing more than to print it out and slip it into the frame of his PhD. 

His students liked him and he liked teaching beginner classes, a win-win for everyone. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy more difficult classes but rather that the higher the class number, the more students that he couldn’t baffle into amazement. It clashed with his whole image. There were plenty of university faculty members who would want the students that nearly knew everything; it made the teaching part easy. It wasn’t just the philosophy department either, according to the ever gossiping student body and greater gossiping faculty. 

It was this pull for more students that had led his department head, Doctor B. Bubb, to send out a call for new classes. They wanted something new, something to excite the student body into having a larger interest in their department. E-mails were sent out and all were expected to be replied to with as much enthusiasm as one could muster. While he knew that it would disrupt the flow that had developed, Crowley found himself interested in developing a new class all for his own. To mold a whole curriculum from essentially nothing and call it his! Of course, the risk was that if the class failed, it would be his fault alone. It was a sour enough thought to keep his interest in the offer to a minimum.

Walking towards his office, Crowley paused as he heard voices in an adjacent hallway, the one connected to his office.  _ ‘Ah, its… Fell? That’s his name, right? Yeah, Fell and… ‘ _ Crowley squinted behind his glasses, trying to place the face. The first impression that came over Crowley was the fact their hair did not match their clothing, clashing a party look with one that spoke of an office meeting at the end of the fiscal year. ‘ _ A personified mullet. A smart car parked in the CEO’s parking space. A- _ ’ Before his brain could come up with any more criticisms, the walking paradox– _ Ha! One more!” _ –walked out of view. Leaving a rather bothered face on Crowley’s neighbor. 

“What in the world was that?” He strutted up to the man, enjoying the way the blonde’s skin jumped.

“Dr. Crowley! You scared me half to death!”

“Yeah, well your face says you’re probably hoping for such things, Doctor Fell.”

“Please, call me Azariah.” He smiled, eyes squinting and the rim of his glasses touched his eyebrows from the rounds of his cheeks rising. “It was only Michael. She usually dampens my mood quite quickly. But no worries, I’ll survive, Dr. Crowley”

“Just Crowley will do. And I sure hope so,” Crowley chuckled. “Headed towards your office?”

“I am,” the blond pauses for a moment, eyes looking down the hall that Michael walked down. “Care to walk with me?”

Their conversation lasted longer than their walk, keeping them in the hallway of temporarily abandoned offices of co-workers instead of their own respective offices. Crowley expressed his distaste for the southern hemisphere for the Earth, while Azariah pointed out that he could escape the winter weather by taking a trip south. 

“What am I? A bird?” Crowley spat.

“No, definitely not. But if you hate the cold, I can’t imagine you enjoying the snowy winters here,” Azariah chuckled.

Opening his mouth, Crowley jolted to a halt before he could retort. Music blasted (though blasted was not quite the term Crowley would use for a purely violin instrumental piece) forth from Azariah’s pocket, causing him to quickly fish it out. 

“Shit…” Blue eyes scanned the screen of his phone in a panic. “I’m late for my meeting!”

Crowley, never one to excuse an opportunity for teasing, smirked. “Never took you for a dirty mouth, Dr. Fell.”

Not even a second was given to the comment, Azariah tapped out a message in a frantic manner. “I have a meeting with Gabriel and the rest of the department that started 10 minutes ago!” 

Usually, Crowley was the kind of person that enjoyed watching people scramble. He found joy in panicked eyes, furrowed brows, and clenched teeth. It made for a great show, really. However, whether it was the conversation they were just having or a sick sense of empathy hit him, he felt his own eyes jumping from the phone, to Azariah, to the man’s office doors. 

“Is there anything you need?” 

“I need my syllabi, but I don’t have time to print them out…” Azariah paused his typing, looking up at the other, “Oh, Gabriel will not be happy.”

“Don’t worry about him,” Fluid fingers grabbed onto Azariah’s arm, tugging him down the hallway. 

“What are you doing?” Azariah’s voice cracked with surprise.

“I don’t really know, but whatever it is, we’ll do it together.”

Silence fell, punctuated by heavy breathing. Azariah had given up on his reply to Michael, trying to focus on Crowley’s boots as his brain searched for anything to preoccupy his attention. It began to sink in that Crowley, a Philosophy professor, was probably not the best match for a meeting between the Religious Studies professors. He couldn’t see his colleagues being, well,  _ excited _ to have Crowley sitting in on their meeting. He also couldn’t see Crowley having anything short of a terrible time.

“Crowley, you don’t ha–” With his face meeting Crowley’s back, Azariah’s voice cut off.

“This is the room, yeah?

“Excuse me?”

Crowley, stepping to the side, pointed at the plaque on the wall that read  _ Conference Room.  _ “Well, it’s the only conference room on this side of the building.”

“Oh… Oh! Yes, this is it!” 

While either one of them could have opened the door, the opportunity was taken by someone on the other side. Pulling it open, four sets of eyes narrowed at the duo. 

“Azariah. You didn’t tell us you were bringing a… friend,” Michael’s eyes narrowed. 

“Ah, yes, well…” Silence carried on for a little longer than what would be considered comfortable. It wasn’t until Doctor Uriel Davids, in all their collected poise, let out a forced cough that words found Azariah again. “Yes! This is Professor Anthony Crowley, Philosophy department.”

“Philosophy?” Professor S. Phon, a round man with a gold tooth that made most people uncomfortable when he grinned, raised an eyebrow. 

“Yep.” Crowley shoved his hands into his pants’ pockets, adjusting most of his waist to one leg. 

“I have to ask, but why are you here, Mr. Crowley?” Gabriel asked, glancing up from the papers in his hands for only a moment of judgment.

“I had asked him to accompany me!” Azariah quickly lied. 

“Oh? And why would that be?” Gabriel set down the papers in favor of giving the pair his full attention.

“Well…” Azariah began, glancing up at Crowley for help. He found that Crowley was much too willing to help. Truth was that Crowley was much too soft for blue eyes.

“We’d like to pitch a potential new class!” Crowley announced, pulling everyone’s eyes and raised eyebrows towards him. 

“New class?” Uriel frowned. They sat up even straighter if it were possible.

“See, I recently took a short trip to New Zealand. While I was there, I met a woman that talked about everything and anything. I honestly found her annoying, until she asked me one day:  _ Why do people believe so many different things in religions? Aren’t they all aiming for the same end goal? _ ” Crowley’s voice hit higher notes as he mocked the fictional woman’s voice, quickly dropping back to his own original voice. 

“And then it hit me.  _ Why  _ indeed! Most religions have the same basis for their beliefs. Why not apply philosophy to religion?” 

Used to lack-luster responses from his own colleagues, Crowley didn’t even flinch at the tight-lipped expressions of his audience. He glanced at Azariah, the poor man was looking at the floor like a scolded dog, and grinned even further. 

“Thus, I enlisted my neighbor across the hall. Professor Azariah Fell, of course.”

This made an impression if Gabriel’s eyebrows inching up to his hairline was anything to go by. 

“That’s why you’re late, Azariah?” Gabriel smiled at his colleague. “I never took you one to be so… helpful. Especially if it compromises your commitments.” 

A mess of sounds and pieces of apologies were on the tip of the blond’s tongue. However, Crowley’s hand pulling at the hem of his sleeve cut his voice short. 

“My fault, really. I forgot to print out the example of the syllabi, but I can email it right over to you after we’re done here!”

“Crowley,” Azariah hissed under his breath. It went ignored.

“See, the Philosophy department had our own meeting last week and I was, so graciously, given the opportunity to build an entirely new curriculum. I was just telling Professor Fell here about it the other day! I didn’t know what to do, what with writing a whole new syllabus and figuring out a solid curriculum. But the good Professor suggested a Religious Philosophy class, and has been assisting me in the details of it all.”

Crowley, Azariah quickly concluded, was quite the showman. And a well-trained liar to match. 

“So I suggest that, instead of creating a wholly new class, why don’t we make it a combined class? Half of my syllabi are his ideas anyway, I don’t mind sharing credit when it’s due.”

Smile widening, Gabriel nodded. “Well, a new class in the Philosophy department would be interesting. Though, I’m sure you are capable enough to handle it on your own.” His eyes opened slightly, sharpening to a knife’s point. 

“Oh, no doubt about that. But Doctor Bubb, whom I’m sure you know, has already submitted the paperwork for a combined class to the dean. If you haven’t received it yet, I’m sure you will soon. Doc B has been riding my ass about adding a class to my schedule since Ligur left us last year.” It was hard to tell the truth from the lie at this point, a skill that Crowley was quite proud of developing. 

The four sitting at the other end of the table shared glances in a way that could be mistaken for telepathic communication. Uriel glanced at Crowley and Azariah and then back at the paperwork in front of them. They wrote a note before passing it around. Professor Phon smirked at them, only breaking away to look at the paper passed in front of him. His smirk turned into a gleam. Michael and Gabriel also joined in on the toothy grins. What Azariah would do to leave the room five minutes earlier would probably make his grandmother die a second time. 

“Great news!” Gabriel finally boasted, standing up to walk towards Crowley and Azariah. “We’ve decided to give you two a chance. I’m sure students will be very interested in learning various views on different religions. And the fact that you have so much already prepared! I think—and I believe everyone else would agree—that we can leave everything in your capable hands.” He stuck out an open hand to Crowley.

“Yes, that would be best. Great, in fact,” Crowley confirmed, shaking the offered hand.

“Good, good. Of course, that also means that you will need to design the curriculum, since it will be the first time Religious Studies and Philosophy are merging here at Centari University.”

Azariah quickly paled at the thought. “While that may be true–”

“And you’ll need to create your own exams to match your combined teaching styles. But I’m sure you two are close enough that it will be easy for you!”

Bonus:

“You did what now?” Anatheama, a woman of many skills and clothing choices, laughed at Crowley and Azariah. She nearly knocked over the bottle of wine they were sharing as she gestured at him. 

“Give me credit for quick thinking, woman!”

“Give me more stories like that and I’ll give you credit for being the biggest buffoon I know! Which is saying a lot– I do teach Introductory English Literature.” She took another gulp of wine.

“Azariah! Tell her how great I was!” Crowley cried indigently.

“Oh you were great–” Azariah narrowed his eyes at his glass before shooting the rest of the wine back. “Great at landing me with more paperwork and another class!”

A group of seasoned students watched as three of their professors, none of which should have had any business hanging out with the others, grow utterly wasted. Through the slurred shouts and drunken singing, rumor of a new class slipped into their ears, stirring up a curious sense of interest. 


End file.
